7 292
7
men don’t cry
usual, produced her weapon
of personal mass destruction:
the blame game.
Aim. Fire!
“Your grandfather was a
revolutionary who fought to
free his country. A brave and
courageous man. We were ten
children fed on dry bread and
we walked barefoot without
complaining. You only have
to look at everything he did
to raise us. Do you think we
fretted about whether he
loved us?”
“All right, mum, I know that
story of yours off by heart.
You weren’t allowed to play
outside. And he took you out
of school at thirteen. So what
kind of life is that anyway? A
horror movie?”
“That’s got nothing to do with
it! We were living in a different
era then. And he took me out
of school because he needed
me to look after my brothers
and sisters. He raised us to be
good people!”
“D’you really think you raise
your children to be good
people by locking them up?”
“Nobody’s locking
you
up!”
“Yes they are! You never let
me do anything. I’m not even
allowed to wear jeans!”
“Is that what’s making you
unhappy? Because we don’t
want you dressing like a
cowboy?”
“It’s called fashion! You don’t
understand. Take Julie’s mum,
she’s got a young attitude,
when she’s with her daughter,
you’d think they were two
girlfriends…”
“Two giiiiirlfriends?”
My mother loves dragging
out a syllable to exaggerate